Suck It Up
by I've Been a Labrat
Summary: After ten years, Moira finally remembers what happened in '62. Returning to Westchester, instead of finding a self important ass of a telepath, she finds a ragged wallowing shell of a man. Regardless, she demands an answer as to why Charles suppressed her memories, and finds herself disgusted with him for giving up entirely on life and the world.
1. Identity Crises

_I don't think it's much of a secret how much I love Moira, if you guys have read my other fic "Jewish When Convenient." I always thought she was such an amazing role model, especially compared to the other three women who were collectively pretty brain dead and dependent on men (which was why I was so overjoyed to see Raven in DOFP be so independent and siding with neither man). So then yesterday I thought to myself, "you know, I kinda really miss having Moira around, and I really kinda want to see her clock Charles in the jaw for erasing her memories." Which resulted in this story, wherein Moira returns to tell Charles he needs to put on his big boy panties and suck it up, because he needs to help mutants instead of wallowing in his castle. Enjoy._

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><p>Charles shivered violently in his bed, head rolling side to side on his pillow as he gasped for relieving breath that absolutely refused to come. His fingers clawed at and clutched the covers as he continued panting, cloudy blue eyes blinking up at the ceiling.<p>

_What I wouldn't do for a drink._

As if sensing his thoughts-he'd probably heard them, Charles was still piss poor at shielding-Hank looked up and cast a knowing look at his friend from his place in the chair next to Charles's bed. It was half a glare as well, a threat not to even _think_ about getting up to nose around for alcohol in the house, lest Charles desired being tied to the bed.

Which was what happened the day before, when he'd gotten so desperate he'd finally snapped. He hadn't even made it out of his bedroom, however, before Hank had actually _tackled_ him like they were in an American football game, and pinned him to the hardwood floor. Charles had moaned and squirmed, trying to push Hank off, but the younger man sat on the middle of Charles's back and muttered to himself about drug addicts and wishing Logan hadn't gone out that day. After Charles gave up his fruitless struggle, Hank had put manhandled him back to bed. The moment he was up from the floor, he'd started fighting again, to which Hank responded not only with a headlock and a "you either want my help giving up your dependence, or you don't, Charles, now which is it?" but also by tying him to the bed. Charles had begun spitting curses at the boy he'd once mentored, while Hank merely ignored him and cleaned his glasses on his shirt.

He really was trying not to have a repeat of yesterday, he was. It was just… so bloody difficult, even though it shouldn't be. He was almost thirty-six, he should have more willpower.

But he didn't, which made him turn over on the mattress and pound a fist into it, a frustrated groan escaping his lips. It had only been five days since Washington, so at least he sort of had an excuse for not doing well with quitting his drinking habit, but he was still so incredibly aggravated with his own lack of restraint. He'd been at least slightly more put together eleven years before. Why couldn't he achieve that now?

Charles would admit, he missed that old self. He missed himself, horribly. He always looked so handsome, clean, and alert. Now when he gazed into the mirror he found someone completely foreign yet totally familiar to him. The same face he'd seen every day for the past ten years. But it was a face that, at the same time, he didn't expect to see. For some reason a part of his mind still expected to see his true self. Confident, dashing, intelligent Charles Xavier, who could make women swoon without even looking into their minds. Who boldly faced each day with an energy no sane being should have, but he somehow had that and maintained his sanity. Whose life was so secure, with his darling little blonde sister, his ungodly large inheritance, his newfound friends in Agent MacTaggert and Erik Lehnsherr. Who eagerly dragged Erik across the continent looking for students he looked forward to tutoring in the still murky waters of mutant-power control. Who, if he made a faux pas, could always find a way to smooth things over and come out with everyone smiling and happy.

His chest ached when he remembered himself, who he'd been. He wished every day that was his true self, that he was still that way somewhere deep down. That when he next looked in the mirror his hair wouldn't be scraggly and hanging in his face, his eyes wouldn't be bloodshot, his face would be clean shaven again. He wished he was that man he once was. Still wished it, because despite what he'd seen in Logan's head, that confidence high had only gotten him through Washington. It had dropped off almost immediately after confiding in Hank that he wanted to go completely sober, and now he was stuck in this contract made with his now-oldest friend and still wallowing in his own regrets.

Charles despised the man he'd become.

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><p>An identity crisis. That was what she'd dealt with for <em>ten<em> years after her latest assignment. Ten years wasted, worrying about whether she was really her or if her whole life had been a lie, because three months of memory had been wiped nearly clean from her mind. Moira had considered herself pathetic while simultaneously worrying herself into a state of nausea over what was real in her life and wasn't.

When the memories came back, they _came back_. In a sudden rush that made her lose balance and fall to the floor. Thankfully, she'd been at her apartment, but that hardly made it better. That enormous chunk making up three months hit her like a freighter full of cement blocks. She'd been so jarred she lost consciousness completely, waking hours later and feeling utterly exhausted.

She managed to make herself a single mug of tea, sitting down at the kitchen table and sipping it wearily. She was Moira Rose MacTaggert. Alright, that was the start. She was thirty-five years old. She'd once held a job at the Central Intelligence Agency, but had resigned after three months of unbearable condescension and being sent backward in time to the typing pool. She'd been done trying to make progress for herself and other women by achieving a higher position. Forget it, she'd find some other way to force back the walls of discrimination.

She had worked for the NAACP over the past nine years, doing what she'd always been best at: fighting for equality in any way possible without resorting to outright violence. Some part of her had had an inkling that she knew firsthand what violence in the name of equality would do, but she never could put a finger on it.

She'd taken a drink of tea again. Now she knew, because she remembered. Erik Lehnsherr and his blasted lone wolf mentality, even in the end when they'd attempted to coerce him the whole time they'd known one another.

_No_. Not _them_. It had never been a "them." No, it had been…

Moira had narrowed her eyes at an invisible bastard. _Charles_.


	2. Everyone Needs a Drink

_So I'm honestly really surprised at how much attention this story has already received, as short as it is and considering Moira is a main protagonist. Gives me hope, and confidence. :) Thank you Nobs, i-dont-know-what-to-put-here3, Cassandra-Luna-Bellatrix-Snape, and WIP-Writer In Progress for favoriting this story so quickly! Also a huge thank you to _Ariel-Naraya-Marjana_, NotMarge, P, and brigid1318 for leaving me reviews! You're all just amazing for your support so soon after I've published this!_

_Withdrawal is a (crude expletive for female dog), honestly, and especially for Charles after 10 years of drinking. I absolutely love how strong a woman Moira is, and I admired her being the only woman field agent in the CIA in the movie. And yes, the flashback of Hank football-tackling Charles and sitting on him was one of my favorite scenes I've written in a while. Hank loves being Charles's friend, but seriously, he has to help him stop being a total mess._

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><p>Hank visibly balked at the sight of who had knocked on the door, close to collapsing and faceplanting on the hardwood floor. He spluttered, trying to process words even though his mind had flatlined, and the woman at the door seemed almost as shocked.<p>

_Oh, right, she last saw me as a giant blue cat-thing._

"Moira?" He finally asked in a weak voice, staring at her with wide blue eyes behind thick glasses.

"Hank?"

He nodded in affirmation, still bewildered. "What… how… I thought…"

Moira narrowed her eyes. "I remembered last November."

_Oh._

"Would you… um…" He stepped aside, holding the door open wider. "Like to come in?"

_Stupid question. Of course she wants to come in, why else would she return?_

And then another, belated thought of absolute panic. _Oh, no, I hope Charles is still showering._

"Would you… I'll make some tea," Hank told her, hoping she wouldn't go looking for Charles if he simply stated he was making tea instead of offering to. "This way." He beckoned Moira to follow him, walking down the halls and keeping his ears trained on her footsteps behind him. Entering the kitchen, he set about the tea-making, putting water on to boil and getting out the mugs.

Then he regretted it, because now he had to turn back around and face her, standing in the kitchen with her arms crossed, and _god_ he felt awkward since he knew every detail of what Charles had done.

_What is my life?_

He cleared his throat, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Er… Charles is… upstairs… bathing."

Moira gave a single nod, still looking at him. They gazed at each other for a moment, then she spoke. "Where are Alex and Sean?"

It was like he'd been punched in the stomach at Alex's name, and then kicked between his legs at the mention of Sean.

"Alex is… in Vietnam." When Moira nodded in understanding, he looked down at his shoes. Converse, because Logan had suspiciously mentioned how Hank needed to stop wearing those "old man" shoes, and then said shoes had disappeared when Hank woke the next morning.

"Sean…" He swallowed, shaking his head and turning back to the counter, fiddling with the box of tea. What was there to say? _Gee, one of my closest friends had a hole blown through his chest right in front of me, and his blood ended up sprayed on my face. That was fun, let me tell you all about that._

_And then apparently, since we couldn't take his body with us, it was sent to Trask Industries and dissected because Bolivar Trask is a sick bastard._

He thanked the stars when Moira seemed to understand, a hand placed on his shoulder comfortingly. They both heard the heavy footsteps coming down the hall, however, and Moira ghosted away to where she'd stood before, both of them turning to the doorway.

"Uh… hey, Beastie boy, wanna catch me up?" Logan asked, befuddled by Moira's appearance.

"Moira, this is a new friend of ours, Logan. Logan, this is an old friend, Moira."

They shook hands, and Logan seemed impressed by what Hank remembered to be a strong grip on Moira's part. They exchanged the usual polite "nice to meet you" as Hank took the howling tea kettle off the stove and poured the hot water into both mugs.

"Logan, I'm assuming you don't want tea?" Hank questioned, knowing the offer was moot.

"My answer's the same as always," Logan replied, digging his tin of cigars out of the cabinet and bringing a lighter out of his pocket. "Want a smoke?" He offered out the tin, to which Hank wrinkled his nose.

"I don't relish the thought of dying from hacking up lung tissue, thanks."

Logan gave him a small wolfish grin, putting a lit cigar to his lips and puffing on it as Hank handed a mug to Moira, noting her sudden stiffness. Likely not Logan himself, as the man wasn't _particularly_ intimidating and Moira had never blinked at Erik, who was far worse. Something else, then. Something Hank had no idea about.

"So," Logan sat down at the table, still puffing away, "you one of the Professor's old hook ups?"

The sound of Hank's head smacking into the grasp of his palms echoed in the silent kitchen, and Logan glanced at him, shrugging as if to say "what? I had to ask."

"Fortunately for you and him, no, I'm not," Moira replied steadily, her voice giving no sign of disturbance at Logan's question.

The burly man chuckled. "Yeah, I figured you would've gone straight past furball here if you'd been an old lover. Up the stairs," Logan gestured, "and decking Chuck right in the face."

"And once I finish this tea, that suddenly isn't going to happen?" Moira inquired, raising an eyebrow at Logan, who chuckled again.

"Can't say I'd stop ya. He's kind of," Logan frowned, thinking, but the words that came from the doorway behind them were unexpected.

"A bastard?"

"Yes," Moira confirmed, eyes locking with his as she set down her mug. "Charles," she said, voice now beginning to show evidence of malice.

"Moira," he responded quietly, and Hank turned to gaze at him. He sounded ashamed of himself, and rightfully so.

_Good._


End file.
